


Broken Hearts Stand

by Thiswillonlyhurtalittle



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Five Times, Gen, Holidays, chosen family, fives, slightly dented people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle/pseuds/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Tom Paris celebrates an old Earth holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Hearts Stand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlphaFlyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/gifts).



> Five Thanksgivings later, and you're still my heart.

 

* * *

 _Badlands, you gotta live it everyday,_  
_Let the broken hearts stand_  
_As the price you've gotta pay_

\- Bruce Springsteen, "Badlands"

* * *

 

 

I.

Tom hates all the old, traditionalists holidays. They mean a house swelled with people in front of whom he has to take great care not to embarrass his father, and on top of that these celebrations just don't make any sense.

What are they even marking now, what do they even mean?

But it's a tradition. Thanksgiving is a tradition. This is the only explanation Tom is ever offered, and as in so many other contexts, Owen Paris expects _tradition_ to be compelling enough to satisfy his only son.

Tom really just wants to be in his room reading; go someplace and be alone. Daydream about things that have nothing to do with Starfleet. But instead his father pushes him out into the rooms of officers to shake hands and pay his respects. Receive advice he doesn't ask for concerning his application for Starfleet Academy, even though that's at least three years away and anyway, Tom's still secretly hoping he can convince his father that he doesn't want to go.

About an hour in, Tom watches as several officers scramble to cover for another Admiral who always has too much to drink at these things. The drunken geezer is presently standing weirdly close to Tom's mother, her face unfailing polite even as two other officers fail in their attempts to intervene on her behalf. And Tom's father never comes over, doesn't even act like he notices, and that's when Tom starts to feel like maybe he's going to throw up that glass of champagne he pinched ten minutes ago, back in the service kitchen when no one was looking.

"Admiral Haftel," an Ensign smiles, stepping directly into the drunken man's line of sight.

She's one of the few junior officers here tonight and whoever she is, she's pretty. Really pretty, Tom decides, even though she has her hair pulled back in a way that he finds oddly severe.

It looks like Admiral Haftel thinks so too, because soon enough he's drawn into conversation with her and away from Tom's mother, the Admiral's hand now touching the slope of the Ensign's shoulder.

And Tom feels really nauseous now; repulsed by his own house and the people in it. But as if on cue, the pretty Ensign looks over her shoulder to Tom and gives him a wink, like they're sharing some kind of secret. Like maybe she's sick to her stomach just like Tom is - is doing her best just to make it through this, too.

Before the night is out, Tom sneaks four more glasses of champagne and throws up in one of the flower pots that line the foyer.  His mother must know, she _has_ to smell it on him, but she just puts him to bed and tells his father that he isn't feeling well after too much food and not enough sleep.

Tom falls alseep thinking about that Ensign. The way she looked at him with those gray-blue eyes, over a crowd of people, and gave him that long wink.

. . .

II.

"What?" she squints at him, holding the box of chocolates awkwardly in her hands.

"Valentine's Day," Tom says again. Tries to play it off. "Ya know, the Feast of Saint Valentine. Cupid. All that."

"Cupid," Janeway repeats. Still looking at him like he's crazy.

Maybe he is?

"I remembered," Tom shrugs. "And I don't know of anyone else on the ship whose family is traditionalist."

"Valentines Day," she says, though more thoughtfully now.

"They're coffee flavored," Tom gestures to the chocolates with his chin. "Enjoy."

Strolls out of the mess hall slowly, ignoring Harry's gobsmacked expression and Chakotay's obvious contempt. Tries not to look like a man who's just gotten away with something by the very skin of his teeth.

The turbolift opens in front of him and Tom starts to whistle.

. . .

 

III.

"Tomorrow's Easter," the Captain mentions casually, when they're going over a report alone in her ready room.

They haven't done small talk in a while now, so the comment throws him off.

"Is it?" he asks. Sets his mug down on her desk, careful not jostle the coffee inside it. Does the mental calculation while the Captain looks everywhere but at his face. "Huh. . . I guess it is."

"Easter was big in my family," she tells him, still scanning the padd in her hand. "Bigger than any of the winter holidays."

Easter wasn't big in Tom's family, thank god. After getting through Thanksgiving and then Christmas as a kid, he probably would have stolen a shuttle and run off if there were yet another holiday party, lurking just a few months down the road.

But strangely enough (maybe just given the distance), Tom now sees the appeal of something like Easter. The promise, however false, of atonement and resurrection.

"My mother always made ham," the Captain murmurs with a smile. "My sister used to eat cheddar garlic biscuits until she got sick."

"I like biscuits," Tom says. Picks up his mug again and pretends to find it fascinating.

"Then we should replicate some tomorrow," she promptly responds. Says it casually, as if this isn't this the first meal they'll share since his demotion. As if this isn't _a thing_.

"Tomorrow," Tom agrees. Goes right back to reading the data he has in his hand.

He gets off duty later that night and goes to take off his uniform. Plucks off his pip and puts it on his bedside table like always, right next to his commbadge. Wakes up the next morning and for once doesn't flush with anger and shame, seeing that tiny glint of metal as soon as he opens his eyes.  

. . .

IV. 

They get home the week before Christmas.

Harry keeps saying how he thinks it's perfect and wonderful and the best. Tom privately decides it's yet another way for the universe to slap him in the face.

"How's B'Elanna doing with all this?" the Captain asks him, the two of them standing in her temporary apartment's kitchen.

She's going around, opening and closing cabinets, making them coffee while Tom worries out loud about protecting his fragile little family. Begins to panic himself into smaller and sharper pieces as he thinks about it.

"She's doing her best," Tom says, staring absently down at Janeway's bare feet. Such an add odd and wonderful thing, seeing this woman barefoot. "We both are."

"You'll get through it together," she tells him, and sounds like she believes it. Makes him believe it, too. "You two should come over in a couple days. Bring the baby. Help me decorate my Christmas tree."

"You're getting _a tree_?" he raises an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"They're pretty," she replies flatly. "Doesn't make much sense to scorn something beautiful, just because it reminds me of the past."

"No," Tom says, and gives her a long, thoughtful look. "No, it doesn't."

. . .

 

V.

Tom holds out hope for Thanksgiving because his father has been having a lot of good days this month. But then the day of the holiday rolls around, and it's as if his father already used all his good days up.

He doesn't recognize anyone besides Tom, though he acts oddly and disturbingly calm. Appears openly distraught when he sees B'Elanna and Miral. But only for a moment, his face becoming dull and expressionless thereafter.

"You alright, Pop?" Tom asks, right before they're about to serve dinner.

"Fine," his father tells him. Leans over a little, close to Tom's seat, and whispers into his ear, "try to keep a poker face with the Klingons, son. They're shrewder than you might think, in these kinds of negotiations."

Tom feels his already broken heart break just a little more.

"Sorry I'm late," Kathryn calls from the living room, and B'Elanna shoots Tom a relieved look. "Had heck of a time getting out of that last briefing."

"Hi, Aunt Kathryn," Miral smiles, and the girl kisses her godmother. Kathryn stopping to hug B'Elanna and Tom in turn, before finally looking over at Tom's father.

"Owen," Kathryn begins gently, "it's good to see you."

The old man immediately lights up with a smile - a rare sign of recognition that makes Tom let out a long, grateful breath.

"Gretchen," Owen beams. "It's been far too long. How are you and the girls faring?"

Maybe Tom should have seen this coming. Maybe he should have been prepared for this. But he can't think about that right now, not when Kathryn looks so stricken upon hearing her mother's name. Pale and pained, because this is a topic Kathryn refuses to talk to about; a person she has all but banned from casual mention since putting her into the ground, fifteen years ago. 

"I. . . will just have to fill you in after dinner," Kathryn says. Somehow says it smoothly and even feigns a smile, her face still drained of all its color.

Dinner is mercifully quiet, and Tom finds his wife's hand. Squeezes it under the table.

Conversation begins, however stiltedly, and Tom cuts his father off at the pass whenever it looks like he's about to ask Kathryn a question.

"You planning on sharing any of that pie, Thomas Eugene?" Kathryn prods him with a smile. Catches his eye just long enough to give him a wink that no one else sees.

"Pass that to your cranky godmother," Tom says to Miral, and his daughter smirks as she goes about the appointed task.

"Thank you," Kathryn says, looking at Tom. Sounds far too serious to be talking about pumpkin pie.

Tom winks right back.

. . .

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
